The Velocity of Strained Carrots
by AkamaiMom
Summary: Glinda's back! Only, this time, things have gotten difficult. Ben's ticklish nose, an amorous William McBean, and a General and Colonel at odds with each other are definitely reasons for concern. Can Glinda help the O'Neills find each other again? Will she be able to decide what to do with Bean? And how to clean up the mess left behind? Sam/Jack established relationship.
1. Eruption

**The Velocity of Strained Carrots**

 **Eruption**

 _I've had this story in my head for years. I first started it three years ago, and recently dusted it back off to see where it wanted to go. Yes, it's finished - the second two chapters need some tweaking before they're ready to be posted. But hey, its Ship Day, so I've got to post something new, right?_

 _And so I present to you, for your reading pleasure (I hope), the latest glimpse into the life of Glinda Baldrich._

Surely, Murphy's Law had a codicil for situations such as this.

It wasn't as if she hadn't tried to prepare for all possible circumstances. She wasn't a complete naïf, nor was she a simpleton. The first time that Benjamin had spit up on her shoulder, she'd been wearing a ruched silk blouse that had been hand dyed in India. Apparently, spit-up defied all laws of laundry care, as nothing Glinda had tried had removed the stain. Ever since then, she'd worn only machine-launderable clothing in her Official Grandma Duties.

She hadn't counted on the carrots. Or the sneezing. Who knew that one small child with a ticklish nose could propel such a huge quantity of partially-pureed orange root vegetable with such velocity? How was it possibly to be known that the same child could produce such an impressive splatter pattern? There had been carrots on the high chair, on the counter behind her, and even little smudges of it all the way across the kitchen on the refrigerator, but the majority had hit Glinda directly. Luckily, she'd still had on her reading glasses, so her eyes had been spared the blast. The rest of her person, however, had not been as fortunate. Glinda didn't doubt that she'd be finding bits of it in her hair for hours yet. She had, however, acquired a sense of humor about these moments, as well as a healthy appreciation for them. After all, as Sam had pointed out one evening, Ben had never thrown up on anyone that he didn't absolutely adore.

And that was what made these moments sweet, rather than disgusting. When one loved the vomiter, one didn't much mind being the vomitee. The same could be said for sneezing, she supposed.

She found herself smiling as she wiped bits of dried carrot off her face with a wet washcloth in the upstairs second bathroom. The tub was draining, the collection of toys dripping dry in a clever net hung with suction cups to the tiles in the corner. Ben, liberally scrubbed clean of all offending particles, had long since been dried and dressed in a soft sleeper. She'd combed his hair and brushed his teeth (at least, as well as he'd let her), and then snuggled in a wicker rocker that sat in his room as she'd read him his favorite book. 'But Not the Hippopotamus.' Glinda had regaled the O'Neill progeny with it so often over the past few weeks that she could recite it from memory.

 _A hog and a frog do a dance in a bog . . . but not the Hippopotamus._

 _A bear and a hare have been to the fair . . . but not the Hippopotamus_.

From Ben's delighted giggles, you'd think it was Shakespeare. Ah well - there was time for that when he was older. For the time being, Sandra Boynton would stand - sure-shod - in the Bard's place.

Glinda found a splotch of carrot embedded in her left eyebrow, and another just below her ear. A particularly large glob had landed—and then dried—exactly beneath the curl that always escaped her careful coiffure to hang over her forehead, and she attacked it with zeal before moving onto the fine spray that colored her right cheek. Stretching her chin upward, she bathed her neck of offending residue, dipping the washcloth just below the neckline of her shirt before lowering it to rinse at the faucet.

She'd just wrung the last of the orange-tinted water from the cloth when her cellphone vibrated in her pocket.

That was where Murphy and his pesky laws muddled themselves into this particular circumstance.

Drying her hands on the towel hanging near the mirror, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the device, flicking it open and pressing the 'send' button. "Hello?"

"Hello back, Glin."

"Good evening, William."

"So, are you ever going to call me 'Bean'?"

"Why should I?" She smiled into the phone, assiduously not looking at herself in the mirror. Glinda knew, with absolute certainty, that the reflected expression would be both juvenile and silly. Conversations with William McBean always reduced her to something she barely recognized. In recent weeks, for example, she'd become a creature capable of giggling, for heaven's sake. She might as well have grown antennae and joined an alien race somewhere out in the galaxy. Now that she knew, without a doubt, that such beings existed, the scenario didn't seem all that far-fetched. "You have a perfectly good first name."

"Which no one but you ever calls me."

"Exactly." Darned if she hadn't learned to be a bit coy, as well. The man was impossible.

His low chuckle told her that he'd figured that out already. "Am I to understand that you like calling me something that no one else ever calls me?"

"You seem like a smart man, Mr. McBean." Glinda made her way out of the bathroom and flicked the light off. "My guess is that you could make the correct connections, there."

"Correct connection?" This time, he snorted. "I think I made that one already. You might remember it—you were there."

Who was the woman who answered? Surely not Glinda Baldrich. But she felt her mouth move as she tweaked a brow upwards. "I'm sure I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"Come on. You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid you may have to enlighten me."

Something thunked in the background, a book on his coffee table, perhaps, or a mug on one of the hand painted trivets that his grandchildren had made for his last birthday. But his voice dripped with honey as he answered her with a teasing, "Who knew you could be such a flirt?"

"At my age, one is not allowed to flirt. I'm merely asking because I'm afraid that my aged memory is fading."

"Aged memory. What a crock. You know full well that I'm referring to the elevator at the hospital."

Of course, she knew that. "Oh? Is that right?"

Serious, now, his laughter had been replaced with a deep sigh. "You know, sometimes I wonder what might have happened had I not hurried to catch that particular car that day."

To be honest, Glinda had, too, but she hadn't ever vocalized her thoughts. "I'm sure we would have met in the O'Neill's suite. You came in several times, as you must recall. And I seemed to be determined to make myself a nuisance there."

"Nuisance, my eye. They need you, Glin." He'd said that several times before. "But seriously, what if I hadn't?"

Automatically, in a sing-song voice from her childhood, she responded. "'If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we'd have a Merry Christmas.'"

For a moment, an uncharacteristic silence stretched across the connection. Then he shifted on his chair and chuckled again. "Of course you'd say something like that."

It was Glinda's turn to sigh. "My grandmother used to say it when I was a child. Farm wisdom or some Old Wives' Tale. Maybe I should have said, 'it's no use borrowing trouble'."

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty?"

"'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride'." At his groan, she laughed a little. "I'm sorry, William, I just couldn't resist."

"Forgiven." Immediate, as always. William McBean seemed to have a talent for absolving Glinda of any number of failings - usually her inability to keep dates with him. Murphy, and all that.

Standing in the hallway, Glinda glanced towards the door behind which Ben was presumably sleeping before heading towards the stairs. "The General and his wife aren't home quite yet, I'm afraid. I believe she said that they were going to some sort of meeting. To be honest, I expected them a half hour or so ago, but they haven't returned as of yet."

"So, the movie is a no-go."

"Unless there's a later showing."

"On a work night?" Feigned astonishment leapt in his tone. "I can't usually keep you out past ten when you have to be in the office the next day."

"I like to be bright-eyed, Mr. I-don't-have-to-be-anywhere-because-I'm-retired."

"You know me." A wild, lazy yawn colored his tone. "I just sit around all day. Eating bon-bons and watching my stories on the idiot box."

Glinda smiled at the image. William accomplished more each day than any other single individual she'd ever known. "Fibber."

"Well, you know, I might sit still once in a while." He'd grown more serious. "If I could get you to sit there with me."

Glinda didn't know what to say to that, so she made a noise in the back of her throat, and let the man on the other end interpret it as he would.

After a pause, there came a drawled, "Anyhow."

Glinda pounced upon the chance to change the subject. "Yes, please let's move on."

"So, you were saying about tonight?"

"Well, I mentioned the O'Neills' tardiness."

"The 'O'Neills'."

"That is to whom I am referring, William."

"Funny, but I thought she'd kept the 'Carter' when they married."

"Well, yes. She did, as a matter of fact."

"Yet, you referred to them as the 'O'Neills'."

Glinda furrowed her brow, her confusion a proper motivator to forget about wrinkle prevention. "Of course I did."

There was a note of incredulity in his voice when he responded. "So, it should be said that 'General O'Neill and Colonel Carter' are delayed. Not that 'the O'Neills' are late."

"William." This particular tone used to be quite adequate on General Bodine. It hadn't been as effective on General O'Neill. But then, neither were other common inhibitors like fear and common sense. Glinda waited for a fraught moment for the man to show some contrition, but by the amused sigh on the other end of the line, she came to the unenviable conclusion that her previously go-to tone would have nary an effect on Mr. McBean, either. Apparently, Bean was more O'Neill than Bodine, a thought which made Glinda take a bit of pause. That was a thought to be thunk, for sure.

She sniffed. "Grammar."

"Hey-it's not just grammar." Bean sipped something. "It's life itself, sweet woman."

"It's efficient to refer to them thusly."

"Yet not completely correct."

"I would not speak of a grouping of nuts by referring to them individually as 'Mr. Almond' and 'Mrs. Peanut'. I would simply refer to them as 'the Nuts'."

His answer was immediate, and obviously given while choking back laughter. "Well, of course you wouldn't say that. A peanut isn't a nut. It's a legume."

"Bean!"

He inhaled the rest of his guffaw. "Yes, dear?"

There was nothing to do but start again, since the original conversation had become so horrifically muddled. "I mentioned that Ben's parents have apparently been delayed?"

"Yes."

"What I failed to mention, is that I'm completely covered in pureed carrots at the moment."

He caught his snort before it could become too vociferous, but it still took him a moment to respond. "Barf or sneeze?"

"Sneeze. And how did you guess?"

"It's happened to me more than once." His tone said that the memories weren't all unwelcome. "Little beggars can spew hazardous waste further than any military device ever invented."

Glinda found herself smiling into the phone again. "Well, Ben had just taken a huge mouthful and then it erupted all over me. I'm afraid that my blouse is quite ruined, and I have carrots in my hair."

"You know, I could help you wash those out."

She smiled, even though she knew full well that she should have been offended by that. In all honesty, she had no idea how to respond. For months, now, they'd been hovering on the brink of something, edging ever-nearer a precipice that Glinda had never crossed. Even her relationship with Bruce Gillinsby, which she'd thought to be so heated, had only been punctuated by hand holding and a single kiss on the cheek. William McBean was more patient than Glinda herself could have even imagined, having thus far been content to allow her to set the pace for their physical relationship. Thus far, she'd been progressing just as quickly as one of the Pacific Plates. Somewhat chagrined, she drummed up some sass. "You're getting fresh, young man."

"Oh no. We haven't even approached 'fresh' yet."

Glinda rolled her eyes. "Anyway. I guess I should have expected it—he's only nine months old. How should he know to cover his mouth when he sneezes?"

"He'll learn."

"But until then, I am now covered in emulsified vegetables and my blouse is—" Glancing downward, she allowed herself a rueful smile. "Well, I'm afraid it's ruined."

"Well, we'll postpone then." Resignation—a sentiment that sat well in his gregarious tone. "But call me when you get home."

"I will."

"'Bye."

Glinda murmured a response before pulling the phone from her ear and clicking it off. Slipping the device back into her pocket, she carefully descended, stepping off the bottom stair and turning back towards the alcove in the hallway that served as the O'Neill's laundry.

To wash or not to wash? That truly was the question. Looking down, Glinda pulled the sodden blouse away from her body, angling to see the true extent of the mess in the dim lights of the hall. Orange. Spots of it all over her front, although the majority of the much was located at the spot directly between her - she paused to find the right terminology - bosoms. She took a little sniff, and then grimaced. While carrots were one of her favorite of the root vegetables, regurgitated and then nostril-enhanced carrots sat somewhere lower on her list.

A chime sounded as the hum of the dryer's tumbling came to a halt. She had meant to fold the laundry and stack it neatly in a basket, but the thought of clean clothing momentarily held Glinda's full attention. It would be lovely to not be wearing the dregs of Ben's dinner. Perhaps she could just borrow a tee-shirt. Nothing fancy. Just something unsoiled that she could wear home, launder and then return the next time she came.

Bending, she popped the door open and emptied the laundry into the waiting basket. It took a minute to find a suitable garment, and a moment more to slip into the guest powder room just off the living room to strip off the carrot-covered blouse and pull the clean one—still warm from the dryer—over her head.

She'd just checked the fit in the mirror when she heard the tell-tale sound of the back door opening. With a final look downward, she reached out to open the door.

The tone that met her stopped her cold.

"Sam, I'm not saying that education's not important."

"Well, then, Jack. What is it that you are saying?"

Footsteps echoed on the wooden floor in the back hallway before the click of the door locking echoed in the corridor. "I'm just - it's just - I think that he's a little young to be thinking about this already, isn't it? I mean, he's not even a year old."

"And I think that we should give him every opportunity to succeed."

"Well, yeah - of course."

Sam paused for the briefest moment before responding. "Then what's your problem with this?"

Silence. Tense, urgent, angry silence that was palpable even through the powder room door. They'd been arguing since long before they'd arrived home.

Glinda frowned. Turning her back to the door, she caught her reflection in the glass above the sink. She'd missed a spot of carrot - right there next to her nose. Scowling, she glared at it in the mirror, hoping against hope that focusing on it would help to calm her nerves. Of all days to borrow an article of their clothing without asking! She'd heard the O'Neills disagree before - but this sounded different, somehow. More. She faltered for a word, and failed to come up with one. More something.

"I guess I just don't see the need for it. I mean," General O'Neill snorted a bit before continuing. "I didn't go to all these high-faluting schools, right? And I turned out okay."

"You didn't attend them, Jack. But I did."

"So? What are you saying?"

Glinda could hear her own heart beat in the stillness of the bathroom.

When the Colonel didn't answer, O'Neill spoke again. "What - exactly - are you saying?"

"Don't you want more for our son?" The Colonel's voice sounded earnest. Intent.

The General didn't answer verbally, but Glinda could practically see his expression. Hard. Set. His jaw more square than normal, the fine line of his mouth angled downwards. She'd seen this look many times during her association with him. Usually after he'd received a call from Cheyenne Mountain.

"More than what?"

"I just want more opportunities for him." Sam sighed. "More choices than we had."

"More than just the military."

"Well, yeah." Sam's voice rose. "Don't you want our kid to be able to do whatever he wants to do? Be whoever he wants to be?"

"And what if he wants to be a garbage man? What if he wants to be a welder?" A sharpness tinged his words, half a step away from a shout. "What if he wants to be a Marine?"

She made a noise somewhere between a groan and a cry. "But if we start him off right, he could be so much more."

"More than me."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Just what you meant by what you said." His tone had gone dead. "That what we do - what we did - what we've done - isn't good enough."

"That's not what I said, Jack. Not what I meant, and you know it."

"Do I? How? Because there's plenty to prove otherwise."

"Like what? Like the fact that I married you? Had a child with you?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

An exasperated groan made its way through the powder room door, and Glinda imagined the Colonel, her vivid eyes flashing. "Don't play the 'alternate universe' card, Jack. Just - don't."

"There are parallels to this conversation."

"Like hell there are."

When he spoke again, his voice was deadly calm. "Do you regret it? Do you regret not sticking with pure science?"

Her voice, on the other hand, wasn't. It echoed sharply - sarcastic and biting. "About as much as you regret doing some of the things that you've done."

Silence, then the creak of hardwood flooring. "Well, then. Now we know."

It was a condemnation more than a statement. Glinda caught a view of herself in the mirror and immediately looked away. How many times had she thought just that about herself? That she was just a secretary? She'd never once considered the fact that this wonderful, strong, irascible man could possibly think the same way about his own career, about himself. Especially not after the things he'd done.

From the hall, the Colonel's answer sounded carefully controlled, but Glinda knew she was teetering on the edge of her temper. "I didn't say that, Jack. You know I wouldn't."

"Could've fooled me." A slight squeak sounded in the hall. He'd turned. His footsteps reached the tile near the back door before Sam's voice stopped him.

"Jack."

"You do what you want, Sam." More footsteps, and then a click as he flipped the lock. "Since you're obviously so damned much smarter than me."

There was a drawn, tense sort of silence, and Glinda could imagine them studying each other, both so angry. So hurt. So proud.

And then the back door slammed closed, and she knew that he was gone.


	2. Flow Patterns

**The Velocity of Strained Carrots**

 **Flow Patterns**

 _(A quick word. Since I "came back" to FF . net, they've changed a few things in the way that we're supposed to upload things. My wonky computer doesn't play nicely, and so sometimes, when I upload a story, my entire document comes through completely unformatted. I go through and re-edit, of course, but sometimes I miss things. As an avowed English grammar snob, this bothers me. Ugh. I hope that I catch all the issues.)_

 _And if you're one of the Mom-types discussed herein, more power to you. To each her own, and all that. :)_

The hallway yawned still and silent when Glinda emerged from her ersatz hiding place. She rounded the corner and made her way through the arched entrance to find the Colonel leaning against the marbled island, both hands splayed on the smooth surface, arms stiff. For a moment, Glinda merely looked at her, gauging her expression, her stance.

No tears, but then, Glinda - wouldn't have expected any. The Colonel had never shown herself to be prone to crying. Her visage radiated more pain than either sadness or anger. Worry. Concern. Sorrow. Uncertainty.

Regret.

"Sam?"

Startled, Sam hitched backwards, her hand flying to rest on her heart. "Geez -Glinda. You scared me."

"I'm sorry." The older woman gestured behind her, towards where the powder room door gaped. "I heard you come in, but didn't want to interrupt."

"So, you heard - " the Colonel grimaced. "It all?"

She inclined her head slightly. "I'm afraid so."

Sam's lovely face shuttered. "Oh, Glinda. I'm so sorry you had to witness that."

There was no sense whatsoever in denying she'd overheard. "I'm sorry that the two of you had to go through it."

"Yes, well." Looking down towards the marbled countertop, the young woman closed her eyes on a weary shrug. "Nobody ever said that either of us was easy to live with."

Taking a step closer, Glinda stopped just to the side of the island. "It's natural for married couples to disagree from time to time."

"True. True." Sam nodded, her braid bobbing over her shoulder. "However, it seems to be happening more and more lately."

"Because of Ben?"

"Lots of reasons." She reached out and grabbed a towel that had been left on the counter. Folding it, she placed it back down. Precisely where it had been before. "Sometimes Ben. Mostly me."

"You?"

"I'm - " Pausing, she scrunched her nose up, squinting a little. "I'm restless. I don't know how else to explain it."

"Restless."

"I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"Not really." Glinda smiled. Moving forward, she passed the Colonel, patting her shoulder as she went. She reached out and grasped the kettle from the stove, then headed towards the sink. "But I'll put some tea on and you can try again."

The O'Neills' formal parlor had always been one of Glinda's favorite rooms in the house. Before Ben's nasal acrobatics had pushed bath and bed time back, she had intended, once the boy was safely sleeping in his crib, to brew herself a cup of tea and nestle down in her favorite chair with the book she'd stashed in her purse.

But this was preferable, she decided, even considering the situation. The room gathered around them, dim, and familiar, as if embracing its inhabitants. From the back of the house the kitchen light cast a glow, while the outside street lamps limned the gauzy curtains in the front window in a filmy halo.

The Colonel sat in one corner of the sofa, her legs tucked under her, the heels she'd been wearing kicked off to the side of the area rug. She leaned against the arm of the couch, supporting her cheek on one upturned fist. Anew, Glinda was struck by just how young she appeared. Younger than she actually was, and certainly too young to have accomplished as much as she had.

Perhaps that was part of the problem. When one had, quite literally, saved the world on any number of occasions, parenting one small child might seem like, well, child's play. Certainly a consideration worth making in the present situation, Glinda believed.

"Think it over, think it under, " Winnie the Pooh would say.

There was more than fluff to that particular ursine.

"I know you prefer the calorie-free products, Colonel." Glinda rounded the edge of the sofa and bent to gently place her tray on the elegant table there. She lifted one of the cups off the tray and handed it to her companion. But in times like these, nothing sweetens like a little honey."

"In times like these."

Sitting in her armchair, Glinda balanced her cup on her saucer as she settled. "Difficult times."

Sam stalled with her cup halfway to her mouth. "Difficult."

"Turbulent." Glinda blew a little into her tea. "Hard. Times of turmoil."

"I've seen true turmoil, Glin. This isn't it."

"Perhaps it's not Armageddon as you're used to it." She took a hesitant sip, then decided the brew was still too hot and set it aside, fixing her gaze on the woman sitting catty-corner from her on the sofa. "But this is still a moment of crisis, isn't it?"

"I suppose." Shrugging, Sam stared down into the depths of her cupin quite the same manner as her husband frequently studied his coffee. "We had a fight. We said things."

"Things which have been festering for a while, I presume?"

"Maybe. Probably." The younger woman flicked Glinda a look from under her lashes. "Yes."

The secretary merely waited, hands folded neatly in her lap.

It took a few minutes, but the Colonel finally took a deep breath and sat up a little in her seat. "I haven't taken a post for a while. After Ben was born, I thought I'd want to settle down and do the Mommy Thing."

"I'm sorry." Glinda frowned. "The 'Mommy Thing'?"

"You know - being a Mommy. Diapering, changing, feeding. Baby yoga classes, Mommy and Me, Little Einsteins. The Mommy Thing."

"Ah." Nodding, she urged Sam to continue.

"I've never done anything half-way, Glinda. I'm trying to be the very best mother that I can be to Ben. I'm doing everything in my power to make sure that he has every opportunity to be the best Ben he can be."

"He's a wonderful boy." That went without question.

"He is." Carter ducked her chin, her jaw working for a moment as she seemed to need to find control. "He's so smart and fun and silly. I never thought I'd have this - this time. This job. I never dreamed that I'd be a mother."

"It's only natural that you'd want to perform in the most admirable way possible."

"Problem is - I'm not sure I'm doing enough." Sam set her teacup aside and shifted, setting her feet on the ground and leaning forward, elbows on her knees. "He's wonderful, but I hear the other moms at the park talking about how their kids can do all these things at Ben's age. But I look at my boy, and he's nowhere near accomplishing any of those things."

Glinda tempered her voice, speaking as soothingly as possible. "He's on target for each of his developmental goals, Sam."

"I know that. He's healthy and he's beautiful, and he's doing everything he's supposed to be doing."

"And yet you're not satisfied?"

"He's doing exactly what _he_ ought to be doing." She'd emphasized something different, and her face - showing such distress - made the rest of her point for her.

"So, you think it's _you_ that is lacking. Your mothering is somehow less than it ought to be."

"I think Jack thinks so, too."

"Balderdash." Glinda bit her lip for a moment before returning her gaze to the Colonel's face. "I apologize for my crass language, Samantha. But your husband is completely devoted to you. I simply can't believe that he would think that about you."

"He questions everything I do." Carter shook her head a tidge, lifting a single brow as she continued. "Like when Ben started eating solids, I bought this little baby blender. You cook your own food and then use the blender to puree the foods so that you can make sure that the food your baby is eating is only pure and organic."

"Aren't there commercially prepared infant foods?" Her hand lowered to test the heat of her cup again. "They seem to be made in every variety and flavor."

"Well, yeah, that's exactly what Jack said." Her brows lowered a bit. "He said that he'd eaten the regular stuff, and he'd turned out okay. He just gives Ben bites of whatever hes eating, regardless of how many times I've told him not to. He laughs at me, or rolls his eyes, but I told him that making your own baby food is supposed to be better for the child's cognitive and physical development."

"Who says?"

"The Crunchy Moms."

Glinda faltered. "The whats?"

"The Crunchy Moms." Sam scratched absently at a spot below her ear. "Granolas. Baby wearers. Co-sleepers. Those types."

Lost for a response, Glinda concentrated on making certain her mouth remained shut. Nothing connoted witlessness as much as a gaping maw. And on this front, she had to inwardly admit breath-taking ignorance. Her main source for all things baby-related was, naturally, William. His children had already graced him with several grand-progeny, of whom he spoke both frequently and proudly. Jo Louise Turnbow, her friend at the Pentagon, prized a great number of grandchildren of her own, and was equally loquacious on all things child-related.

Neither of them had ever mentioned anything whatsoever about Mothers of the Crunchy variety.

Sam must have sensed Glinda's reluctance to admit her lack of knowledge on the subject. With a sad little smile, she hurried on. "See, what nobody tells you about the Mommy Thing is that there are factions of moms that tend to run in packs, judging moms who do things differently than they do. The Crunchy Moms judge the moms who allow their kids to eat non-organic foods. The Working Moms say that kids who have Stay at Home Moms don't get socialized as well as their kids do in day care. The Stay at Home Moms claim that Working Moms don't spend enough time with their kids. While Jack's working, I take Ben to the park or to the Mall, or just out running errands, and whatever I do, I feel like everyone's staring at me, making assessments about how I'm raising him. And let's face it. I don't really know what the hell I'm doing." She drew in a long, long, tight breath. Straightening, she flattened her hands, rubbing them against the fine fabric of her slacks. "I just want to do it right."

Glinda reached for her tea. Didn't fortune tellers and gypsies find wisdom within the patterns of tea leaves? Peering into the porcelain cup, however, she found nothing but chamomile with lemon and honey. Cooling. How very disappointing. She took a sip, anyway. Just for something to do.

After a considerable pause, Sam continued. "For the first few months, I was proud just to have kept him alive. Now, though, I'm learning about all these things that aren't in the Mommy books. All these things that you apparently have to do in order for your kid to make it. Everything from pre-preschool to the right preschools, and the right kindergarten and the right elementary schools. There're college prep middle schools, and private high schools where kids can get college credit. Or maybe he'd thrive in a non-traditional charter school where they don't have formal classrooms or grading systems and they learn at their own pace. And do I enroll him in a language immersion preschool, or in one that emphasizes the arts? Which one has he shown the propensity to master? And, because, apparently, this is the right way to do things, all these preschools and kindergartens, and high schools have waiting lists, which practically means that you have to have your kid enrolled since the zygote stage."

"Oh, my."

"And Jack thinks I'm crazy. He laughs at me when I'm steaming organic vegetables to puree, or when I go to three different stores looking for the biodegradable diapers, or when I'm showing Ben flashcards."

Without meaning to, the words escaped her mouth. "He's mentioned the diapers."

"Really?" Sam looked over at Glinda, eyes wide. "What has he said?"

"Just that you liked using them." Flummoxed by her inability to stop her tongue, she sipped her tea again, a vain attempt to purchase time in which to formulate her next sentence in a neutral way. "And that he didn't quite understand why they were so important."

A delicate grunt was emitted by the woman on the sofa. "Oh, I'll bet that he wasn't that nice about it."

Glinda frowned into her cup. The General hadn't been particularly obsequious about the biodegradable disposable diapers, to be honest. Several weeks ago, the Colonel had called Glinda when she hadn't been able to contact her husband directly. She'd dictated a message, which the secretary had dutifully left on O'Neill's desk blotter. About an hour later, he'd returned from his meeting, seen the note and muttered an expletive that had Glinda's brows rising. Without another word, he'd shut down his computer, grabbed his keys and coat, and headed out the door. "Perhaps not, but, in his defense, he'd had a rather trying day."

"I know." Sam grimaced, raising a hand to tuck an errant curl behind her ear. "That Polaris thing came back to bite everyone in the butt."

"Indeed." Glinda hadn't been included in all the particulars, but she knew that the performance of the newest class of inter-stellar ship hadn't gone quite as they'd all hoped. "The General mentioned something about the eggheads at Area 51 and their faulty mathematics."

Sighing, Sam lifted her tea to her mouth. "Yeah. He wasn't as civilized about it when he and I talked about it later."

"About which issue? The biodegradable diapers or the Polaris project?"

With a wry shrug, the Colonel glanced at Glinda before answering. "Take your pick."

"Oh."

For a while, they simply sat, sipping beverages long-since cooled. Companionable silenced wreathed them in an intimate warmth, regardless of the cold tea. Once Glinda had sipped her last, she set aside her cup and saucer and settled more deeply into her chair. She'd found that, with the Colonel, it was often necessary to provide her an opportunity to wriggle through her thoughts before pressing for a comment. And the look on the young mother's face - at turns displaying pique and genuine dismay - evidenced clearly to Ms. Baldrich that things were indeed turbulent within the normally composed woman.

Porcelain clattered against porcelain, and Sam shifted suddenly on the sofa. "You know what it is?"

"I'm sure I don't, Sam."

Steamrolling forward, Sam continued. "I've always been a planner. I like to make sure of my result before I act. I run simulations and calculate variables and graph possible outcomes. My whole life - that's what I've done. School, Girl Scouts, joining the Air Force - even angling to get assigned to the Stargate program. It's all been according to this plan. Jack's one of those 'fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants' guys. He has a general idea of what he'd like the result to be, and then wings it until he gets there."

Nodding, Glinda considered. "I can relate to that, Colonel. I'm quite the planner myself. And I've been support staff for the General now long enough to recognize the truth in your assessment of him."

"Right - so you get it."

"Indeed, I do."

"I want, more than anything in the entire universe, for Ben to grow up to be healthy, and happy, and well-adjusted. I want him to have all the opportunities that he needs to be able to do what he wants to do."

"Of course you do." Glinda tilted her head with a smile. "That's what all good mothers want for their children."

"And I've only got the one chance." Quieter, now. Less certain, Sam peered at Glinda, her eyes shadowed by the fringe of her bangs. "One chance to do this right. That's it. There are no do-overs."

"And you can't run simulations and chart variables on an infant."

Sam sighed, face turning back towards the area rug. "It's generally frowned upon."

"So, in light of this being your only opportunity, you are endeavoring to make certain that Benjamin grows up happy."

Digging her bare toe into the plush nap of the rug, she peeped back up at her companion. "Of course. That's my job, right?"

Silence yawned between them. From somewhere, the rhythmic tick-tick of a clock measured the beats until until an answer could be made. Leaning forward in her chair, Glinda focused on her friend, her tone gently questioning. "Is that even possible?"

"Excuse me?"

Steeling herself, Glinda continued. "Is it even possible to ensure your child's happiness?"

Sam's expression faltered. She opened, and then closed her mouth, finally clamping her jaw tight.

"You've experienced things that nobody else in the entire universe can boast of experiencing. You've seen things, done things, that can't be explained to those of us who remain Earth-bound. You've literally accomplished the impossible. You've saved the world."

There was really no need for a response, so Sam merely waited.

"I've read the files, Samantha Carter-O'Neill. I've heard the stories. You and the General have both spoken of your exploits. And of the people you've worked with. Those you've saved." She paused, forming her next thought. "You've provided them with opportunities and with those things they've needed to survive and thrive. Can you honestly say that they are all happy? I've read about the Tollan, and the people of Jonas' planet. Myriad other examples can be found on our own world of wasted opportunities."

Still silent, Sam turned her head towards the front window, watching the street lights filter through the sheers. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip, her fingers rasping absently on the nap of the sofa.

"After all, each individual is given the opportunity to choose what they will do. The consequences of those choices are joy or sadness." Glinda looked downward, to where her hands sat folded on her lap.

As she'd spoken, she'd experienced one of those singular moments in life when words she'd spoken for someone else's benefit had given her the gift of exquisite insight. Unbidden, yet not unwelcome, William's genial, handsome face flickered across her mind, and she realized that she'd been putting off making some rather important decisions of her own. Choosing to maintain the status quo rather than face what terrified her, but might afford her an immense amount of joy. He'd been unfailingly patient with her, keeping up with - now that she could admit it - her ridiculous pretense that their relationship was merely a friendship.

Bean wanted more.

Glinda didn't know how to give him that. She had, for the vast majority of her sixty-eight years, worked on, and maintained, a facade of such solitude that she had absolutely no clue whatsoever how to then break down a wall and let someone else in.

And as for the physical aspects of that particular decisionGlinda touched her cheek, sure that the heat she felt creep into her countenance would set her aflame. She wasn't used to being touched, and had never once, in all her life, been thoroughly kissed. William had been marriedhad fathered several children. What would he possibly think about a near-septuagenarian who had nary a clue about - _good heavens, could she get any more flushed? - a_ ctivity of an intimate nature?

She'd never set out to be a near 70-year old novice. It had simply been where her path had taken her. To be frank, sharing that kind of openness with another human being had never truly enthralled her. Throughout the years, her friends had married and, in some unfortunate cases, unmarried. They had remarried, lost spouses to death, borne childrenexulting in their triumphs and fretting over their heartbreaks. It had all seemed terribly traumatic. Terribly frightening. Dreadfully uncontrollable. Glinda had considered herself better off alone. Unencumbered. In control of all major aspects of her own life and autonomy.

Until Bean.

If she were to be completely honest, Glinda had to admit that this was the major stumbling block in furthering her relations with William McBean. Uncertainty, fear of the unknown. Of loving and then losing. Feeling despair, or disenchantment. Fear of not measuring up. Of not being enough.

That, particularly, was the most disagreeable thought. That after months of tickling around the edges of something deeper, Bean would reach in and discover that there was nothing there, after all. That Glinda Baldrich truly was devoid of the ability to feel anything greater than giddiness at finding the discontinued Fairy Frost fabric on clearance in yardage form, rather than precuts.

"I have an overwhelming fear of being involved in a relationship." Her voice cracked, and then faltered a tidge. She had never even dreamed of admitting that to herself, much less anyone else. Fixing her gaze on the Colonel, she cleared her throat and started again. "People think that I'm weird. Odd, or something. That I must simply not be interested in finding a partner. I had a suitor once when I was a young woman, but he escaped when my father needed my assistance and I couldn't devote time to young men. "It was - " She paused, finding the right words, " - a harsh blow."

Sam made a noise deep in her throat. Sympathetic, sweet. Her bright blue eyes shone in the dim light.

"I was briefly involved in an affair with Bruce Gillinsby. He was a good man, handsome in his way. Sweet. A little simple, if truth be known. I might have allowed him certain liberties if he hadn't capitulated so suddenly, not to mention swiftly, to his children's demands that he relocate to their part of the country. He told me that he had no desire to move to Arizona - that he would prefer to remain near me."

"Oh, Glin."

"But he left, anyway." She smiled, realizing too late that it would appear sad, rather than resigned. "So, you see. One might conclude that something else - _anything else -_ would be preferable to engaging in any sort of interpersonal relationship with me."

"Well, I know better."

"You might." Glinda tugged at the t-shirt she was wearing, straightening it over her torso. "But how would these gentlemen? Since I did nothing either to encourage them nor invite them to stay."

"But aren't you and Bean - "

"A couple?" She found herself shaking her head. "I don't know how to describe what we are. But, certainly, the reason for that lies squarely on my shoulders. I can't decide if I'm willing - or indeed even able - to make that leap. To try for the brass ring, so to speak."

Sam's lovely face melted into a bit of a frown. "Am I allowed to ask why?"

Glinda took a deep breath, preparing herself for the confession. "I believe I'm going to fail. I honestly can't imagine that I could be successful being - _that kind of woman_. The kind to be a best girl, or a lover, or a wife. I don't believe that I'm able to be any of those things, so I'd rather not try. If I don't try, I can't fail."

Sinking back into the sofa, the Colonel raised a hand to her lips. Tapping the pads of her fingertips against her bottom lip, she studied the older woman with a patent frankness. "And so, by denying yourself the opportunity to make the choice, you're also denying yourself the possibility of being happy with him."

"It's been nine months, Sam. Nine months since I met this wonderful, good, Godly man. This patient, funny fellow who makes me laugh and makes me want - something indefinable. Nine months since he's been calling me, and taking me to movies and carrying me off to eat at establishments where the pronunciations of words don't resemble in anyway what's written on the menu. Nine months - and now, nearly ten." She paused, suddenly grieving the time wasted. The loss. "He has given me every opportunity to be happy. To find a joy that I had heretofore considered impossible. And, thus far, I have squandered it."

Sam's fingers paused in their tattoo, then dropped to lay fallow in her lap. Beneath her bangs, the Colonel's eyes grew dark. "Ben's not going to be happy because I've given him everything. He's going to be happy because I've shown him how to be happy. Because I _have_ _been_ happy."

"In the end, Sam," Glinda sighed. "Are the diapers going to matter? Or the pre-preschool? Is there really a Mommy Police that will be judging your parenting skills based on some ridiculously conceived list? Are you doing all these things because you want to? Because you believe in them? Or are you doing them because you just _think_ you're supposed to?"

The golden hair at her crown caught at the light as Sam slowly shook her head, her face awash with painful realization.

"You're not parenting a lab experiment. Nor are you raising a project. You're raising a child who is an amalgam of two incredible people who have overcome some fairly insurmountable odds to be together. Regardless of whether his carrots are organic or not, or his diapers bending to current fashion, Ben will be who he's meant to be. A real child who will learn who he is by example."

Sam let out a torturously long breath, staring down at her hands, where they rested on her thighs. "That's what he's been trying to tell me all along."

"The General?"

"Oh, Glinda." Nodding, she grimaced, a new light glistening in her luminous eyes. "He thought I was calling him stupid. And maybe, in my way, I was. I overthink everything - I want to quantify everything. Calculate and predict possible outcomes. And he's just watching me make this overcomplicated muddle of everything, all the while trying to get me to slow down and enjoy the ride."

"He's an intelligent, discerning man."

"Yes. He is. And for some ridiculous reason, he doesn't see how remarkable he is. He struggles with a sense of being less than everyone else. He's had to struggle, and to overcome where others - _where I -_ havent. There are things in his past that make him feel - unworthy." Ashamed, chagrined, she ducked her chin. "And I've just made it so much worse."

Faintly, through another extended space of silent reflection, Glinda could hear Ben upstairs, stirring in his crib. During his slumbering hours, he'd proven to be a mobile child, frequently bumping up against the sides of his bed, which, in turn thwacked against his wall. Sometimes, the noise meant he'd awakened. But tonight, after only a few thumps, all returned to quiet upstairs. He'd gone back to sleep.

Into the quiet, broke the Colonel's voice. "Did you know he has a higher IQ than I do?"

Her attention recalled to Sam, Glinda's expression radiated genuine surprise. "Truly?"

"Mm-hmm." Sam reached up and tugged at her braid, twiddling the ends between her fingers. "We were tested years ago - all of the SG teams. One day, I got nosy and snuck a look into his medical file when my friend Janet was busy dealing with Siler."

"Siler?"

"Long story. Anyway, his IQ is six points higher than mine."

"Is that a notable amount?"

"It's enough to make him insufferable if he were to find out."

Smiling, Glinda regarded her friend. Treading carefully, she paused for just a moment before venturing forth. "You said before that you were feeling restless. Perhaps you simply need a project other than your son. Something to quantify while you get back to enjoying simply being a mom."

"That's funny." Sam sighed softly, tossing the braid back behind her shoulder and rising off the couch in a single, lithe motion. "Jack ordered me to get a life once."

"That's a strange command to give."

"It was." Eyes wide, the Colonel reached out and grasped first her own cup and saucer, and then Glinda's, laying them gently on the tray. "The sad thing is, I still haven't figured out how to comply with it."

With a wry shrug, Glinda stood. "I suppose the same could be said for me. The work parts of life are infinitely easier to perform than the _living_ parts."

"That's the truth." Leading the way into the kitchen, Sam placed the dishes into the sink and quickly rinsed them off. With a quick wipe of her hands on the waiting towel, she turned and leaned back against the counter's beveled edge. Her even teeth worried at the edge of her bottom lip, and it took her several long beats before she spoke again. "I don't know what to do, Glinda. He's trusted me with everything that he is. I know him to his soul. And even though I didn't mean to, I threw it all back at him and made it sound like I didn't appreciate _all_ that he is."

"I'm so very sorry, Sam."

"I have no idea how to fix this." Shaking her head, Sam peered up at Glinda. Pale, wounded, she seemed defeated, somehow. "I'm not even sure I can."


	3. Dynamics

**The Velocity of Strained Carrots**

 **Dynamics**

 _Sooooooo. Yeah. I lied._

 _I thought this was going to have only three chapters, but then things got interesting, and its been lengthened to four._

 _Sorry about that._

 _Also, not very much has been said, to my knowledge, about O'Neill's early years. We know he didn't pay particularly close attention in high school (Fragile Balance), and that he was in Special Ops units (Gatekeeper, etc.). I'm unaware of much else. So, being me, I've taken some liberties with his history. I hope you don't mind too much._

She'd stopped and retrieved his suits from the Pentagon cleaners before opening the office for the day - a move which had turned out to be wise.

In the early days of her work in O'Neill's office, before the Colonel had returned from her assignment abroad, Glinda had often entered the office only to be greeted by this same scene: the General, stretched out on the nuclear fallout-proof sofa in the front office area, his stocking-clad feet perched, ankles crossed, atop the armrest.

Trying to maintain some semblance of quietude, she'd crossed the front of the office on tip-toe in an effort to avoid her heels clicking on the flooring, but he'd lurched awake as soon as the plastic on his dry cleaning had rustled. Ah, well, Glinda mused. Once a soldier, always a soldier. And this particular military man hadn't allowed his instincts to slip even an iota since his removal from day to day field operation.

"Guh." He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. Stretching, he growled a little, and then repeated himself. "Guh."

She smiled at him, aware that her expression belied her fondness for him. "Good morning, Sir."

"Are you sure about that?"

Well, there was no decent response to that particular inquiry. Sighing, Glinda turned towards her workspace, depositing her purse on the blotter before crossing through the threshold of his private office. Swinging the door partially closed, she hefted the load of freshly laundered apparel onto the provided hook before smoothing the plastic-wrapped clothing and venturing back out into the front reception area.

He'd righted himself, sitting up. The General's new position did not seem to improve his appearance, however. He seemed grayer, older, and - she struggled to figure out what else had changed - _harder_. As if he'd reverted back to what he'd been in the months before the Colonel had returned from whichever galaxy she'd been traversing. Before she'd landed right here, in this office, and announced she was staying.

Before he'd been happy.

And now. Now, he looked lost. And damaged. And Glinda's heart broke for him, more than just a little.

"Would you like some coffee?"

Flicking a glance towards her, he shook his head, his mouth impossibly thin. He tried to speak, but his voice squeaked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "No. Thanks, though."

"Breakfast, maybe? I've brought muffins." Turning slightly, she gestured towards her desk, and the large fabric handbag sitting in the center of it. A paper bag peeped out of the top. "They're in my purse."

Another shake, only this time, he'd looked down, to where his stockinged feet looked darkly incongruous against the cold institutional tile of his office floor. He gave his toes an experimental wriggle.

"Perhaps later, then." She laced her fingers, grasping her hands together in an effort to keep herself from reaching out and smoothing his fratchety hair. Unusually styled on good days, this morning, the disobedient mass was poking out from his scalp like a graying, excitable porcupine. However, as much his coiffure needed her ablutions, she knew without a doubt that he would not appreciate the attention. What was the idiom about poking the bear? Unwise, considering this particular bear's claws. "If you'd like to get changed, Sir, I could guard the door against those who might intrude."

Unbelievably, he cracked what could generously be termed a smile. "Seeing my lumpy nekkid paleness would serve them right."

Glinda raised her brows. "Yes, well. As fitting a punishment as that may be, I'm not certain that either General Villareal nor Secretary McElhaney have done anything quite foul enough to deserve that. And they will both be here in - " she tilted her wrist to peek at her watch. "Eighteen minutes."

His sigh radiated irritation tinged with resignation. "Do I have to?"

Gently, Glinda nodded. "I'm sorry, Sir. They'll be here with updates on the Polaris fixes, as well as being prepared to discuss next year's budget and some other incidentals."

"Incidentals?"

"Personnel clearances, new weapons modules, and the internal audits of the Beta site and the SGC."

"That sounds like a whole butt-load of boring, Pinky."

"I emailed you the meeting agenda last night." Too late, she realized where that had taken them. Clamping her mouth closed, she regarded her boss with a wary eye. "I'm sorry, Sir. I realize that-"

"It's all right, Glin." O'Neill rose, stretching a little to one side and then the next, before throwing a casual look in her direction. "None of this is your fault."

"But still." She faltered, remembering the angry words, and the tight, suffocating blanket of hurt that had fallen over the house the night before. When she blinked, Glinda could see Sam's face-crestfallen, culpable, and so very, very sad. "Even though it's neither my fault, nor my business, that doesn't mean that I can't mourn the situation."

This time, he leveled his entire attention on her. It was odd, to be the full focus of the General while he was in this mood. Intense, brooding, introspective, this Jack O'Neill bore little resemblance to the one she normally managed. She couldn't help but be struck anew at how deep the currents of the man actually flowed, how much he hid beneath the outward show of vaguely annoyed immaturity.

He opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it again. Running a broad, strong hand through the disaster of his hair, he ended by giving his left ear a good scratch. He breathed in and out evenly, deliberately, his large frame held in an alert sort of posture which Glinda could only term as being "battle ready". He was preparing for something. Finally - _finally_ \- he spoke, bracketing his hands at his waist. "How is she?"

And Glinda melted, a little, hesitating before answering him. "She's hurting, Sir."

His chin dropped towards his sternum. "But you stayed with her?"

"For a while. Until she had resigned herself to the fact that you weren't coming back. Until she'd gathered herself together."

O'Neill's jaw worked in a rough rhythm, his mouth pursed so tightly his lips were white. Dark eyes regarded her - assessing, and then accepting her answer. Rocking forward on his stockinged feet, he glanced over at his office, then back at Glinda. With a sparse nod, his mouth forming a silent, "Okay", he turned and headed into his office.

The door barely made a sound as he closed it behind him.

-OOOOOOOO-

She hadn't been invited to the meeting, which suited Glinda just fine. She had a busy morning ahead of her, a situation not made easier to handle by the fact that she'd lain up half the night worrying.

It took a few minutes to turn on the office equipment and brew the coffee. Another few to walk down the hall to the mailroom and retrieve the first of the morning's correspondence. By then, O'Neill's guests had arrived, closeting themselves in the General's private office. Sitting at her desk, she switched on her computer - That Infernal Contraption - then waited patiently until it was humming along nicely so that she could click open her email inbox.

Surprisingly, only a dozen or so awaited her, which she dispatched hastily - none being of first priority nor needing input from the General. Moving on to the inter-office memos, she sorted those which she could complete from those requiring the General's attention, depositing the more sensitive documents into his private box. Next, she downloaded and printed the latest requisitions from the SGC, affixing clever little removable stickers just to the sides of the lines on which the General needed to sign.

As she smoothed the final one into place, her phone buzzed. As a habit, Glinda always switched it to 'mute' during the day. She'd become accustomed to the alert signals - one vibration for text messages, and multiple, longer spates of buzzing when someone attempted to reach her by phoning.

A quick glance backwards at the door told her that the meeting was still in full swing. Reaching to her right, she pulled the cellular device from the special tray she'd positioned next to the landline, glancing at the screen on the front. Only three people ever sent Glinda text messages, and just one of those with any regularity. As she read the name on the alert, she bit her lip.

It was the first time that a message of any sort, text or otherwise, from William McBean had failed to send even the tiniest little thrill up her spine. Instead, her heart thudded just a touch more rapidly, more heavily, a reaction for which Glinda had no plausible interpretation. Her thumb hovered at the edge of the phone, unsure whether or not to flip it open.

She'd returned home the night before, and gotten ready for bed. Her shower, longer than normal, had erased the remainder of the carrots from her physical being, but the cold that had settled in her heart wouldn't be expunged by mere warm water, no matter how well the soap lathered. Truthfully, her worries were not centered solely on the O'Neills and their troubles, either. While therapeutic, sharing her fears about William and whatever their relationship was or might become had also put words to fears that Glinda had quite successfully sublimated for three quarters of a year.

She'd lain alone in her bed, her mind racing, while the moon had shone in through the lace curtains that frothed around her window. It wasn't until the very wee-est of wee hours that she'd fallen into a restless sleep, and even then, her dreams had been profoundly odd - and of a disturbingly physical nature. Never in her 67 years of life had she ever known anything like it.

And now, here he was again. Injecting himself into her day, albeit in electronic form. Glinda took a deep breath before urging the device open and retrieving the text message.

 _Good Morning. How are the carrots?_

Despite her exhaustion, she smiled. So thoughtful. Glinda took a pause before typing in a response. _Thankfully vanquished. How was your evening?_

His reply was brief, and instantaneous. _Boring_.

 _I'm sorry. And I'm sorry about our date._

 _Me too._

Thumbs poised to answer, she hesitated, unsure of how to phrase her next thought. But how did one tell a man whom one was only peripherally dating that one wanted to reassess the relationship?

The phone buzzed again while Glinda was considering.

 _Raincheck_?

Pursing her lips, she quickly keyed in her answer. _Of course._

 _When_? Another immediate response.

Tonight, Wednesday, was her quilt guild meeting, and Friday was Scrabble. That left Thursday or Saturday.

 _Tomorrow_?

 _It's a date_.

Glinda frowned briefly at the phone before snapping it closed and placing back in its little tray. A quick, unconscious look at the clock at the top of her computer screen told her that it was close to 11:00 in the morning. Given that the majority of the activities she and Bean had enjoyed together had occurred after 7:00 in the evening, she had roughly thirty-two hours in which to formulate a cogent statement through which she could express what needed to be expressed.

Thirty-two days might not have been enough time. Nor thirty-two weeks. In order to say something, first she needed to know what it was she needed to say.

Sighing, Glinda turned towards the closed door behind her, trying to listen for signs that the meeting was winding down. Over the past few years, she'd discovered it to have incredible sound-proof properties, and today was no different. The voices behind the door reminded the secretary much of the adults' voices in the popular Charlie Brown films. _Wa wa wa wa. . ._

With a nostalgic smile, she turned back towards her desk, reaching for the to-do list that she left herself each evening before locking up the office. She put checkmarks on each completed task, then moved on to the next one. Budget proposals.

So involved became she in paperwork that Glinda hardly even registered the sound of the door opening behind her. Voices, more distinct, now, and the slight shuffling of leather soles on the tile of the office floor yanked her back from the brink of budget-purgatory, landing her directly into the present. With both hands, she pushed herself back away from her desk, swiveling in her nifty desk chair towards the crowd exiting the General's office.

"Glinda!" General Villareal's voice boomed across the space. "How the heck are you?"

Smiling, Glinda rose. "Marco." Reaching out, she accepted his handshake. She'd known the man for years - watched him rise from Lieutenant Colonel all the way up to receiving his first stars. He was a thoroughly affable sort, if a little indiscreet from time to time. "I'm well, thank you. How are you?"

"Good." Marco patted his midsection, which seemed to have expanded somewhat since the last time Glinda had seen him. "The wife is retired, now, and the kids are both in college, so she's bored. She's taking cooking lessons. They're making me fat."

"Oh, now, Sir - "

"No matter. She's happy." Reaching out, he grabbed his companion by his sleeve, dragging him over. "Secretary McElhaney, meet Glinda Baldrich. The finest secretary you'll find in the Pentagon. How she managed to get assigned to General Doomsday over there is beyond me, but there it is. Glinda, Frank McElhaney." He winked at Glinda, nudging the Secretary in the ribs. "I've tried to lure her away for months now, but she's sticking it out with O'Neill. Probably has a little crush on him."

"Sir!" Narrowing an eye, Glinda tilted a look at the Brigadier General. "I'll have you know - "

Marco threw a good-natured leer over his shoulder. "Sam's got some competition, hey, O'Neill?"

"Why - " Sputtering had never suited Glinda, and yet here she was. Sputtering.

"Frank, this little lady's one of the sweetest things - "

"She's got herself a boyfriend, Marco." One shoulder perched against the doorjamb of his office, O'Neill lounged casually with his arms folded across his chest. "I'd be careful, if I were you."

Villareal's dark brows rose in genuine astonishment. "A boyfriend?"

"A boyfriend. Although he's a man of the cloth, so - " Jack trailed off, shrugging, then looked over at Glinda, his face an angelic farce of concocted innocence.

"No shi - I mean, crap." Marco blinked several times at her. "You've been holding out on me, Miss Baldrich."

"I've been doing no such thing."

"A boyfriend." Turning towards the McElhaney, the Brigadier General shook his head with a mocking sort of disappointment. "Well, I'll be damned."

Glinda drew herself up to her full height. Casting what she hoped would be a harrowing look towards her boss, she set her chin and raised her brows. "Well, probably, Marco, but I try not to judge."

With a sudden, short bark of laughter, Villareal reached off to his side, thwacking Secretary McElhaney with the back of his hand. "See? I told you she was a gem."

Pushing away from the doorway of his office, O'Neill crossed the room until he'd reached the main entrance. He opened the door, holding it wide. "Sorry, boys. I've got another meeting in twenty, and I've got to hit the head. So, if you'll excuse me - " He tilted his head at an expectant angle towards the corridor.

McElhaney nodded a farewell to Glinda, then made his way for the door, with General Villareal close behind. At the door, the flourescent overhead lighting blinking off his stars, Marco turned and tossed her a hasty, playful salute before muttering something low in O'Neill's ear and making his way out into the hall. The door closed behind them with a muted 'snick'.

Lifting a hand, Jack hooked his finger into his tie and tugged it loose, his long strides eating up the distance between the entrance and his private office. At the threshold, he paused, pivoting slightly, his dark eyes catching at Glinda's green ones. "I didn't realize that you and Villareal knew each other."

"Nearly forty years at the Pentagon, General." She smoothed her blouse, more out of habit than necessity. "I know a great many people."

"Makes sense." He swiped at his nose with a crooked finger, then scrubbed at the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand. "He's exhausting."

"He is, indeed, an ineffable fellow."

"I'd just say that he's a pain in the butt."

Glinda closed her mouth on the truth of that matter, only to open it upon another. "For your information, Sir. William McBean is not my boyfriend."

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to, Pinky."

"We are friends. He just happens to be male."

"He's sure walking like a duck." The General flapped his elbow like a wing. "Quack."

Looking downward, Glinda hid the smile that threatened. "Well, no matter. There's work to do. I thought I heard you say that you needed to use the facilities."

"I lied." The corner of her boss' mouth turned up slightly, but his gaze fell - first apparently towards his shoes, and then to where his large hand rested easily on the knob of his office door. "Give me a few minutes, Glinda, then bring me the daily stickers, will you?"

The door was already closing behind him as she murmured her affirmative response.

-OOOOOOO-

It took thirteen minutes exactly for her to gather all the forms which required the General's signature. Glinda wasn't certain exactly when he'd started calling them his 'daily stickers', but the term had quickly become one of her favorite O'Neillisms. Just like the man to bring a new level of concise communication to the table. If nothing else, he'd exceeded all of her most stringent expectations in regards to efficiency.

She pushed backwards through the door, holding a large packet of file folders in one arm, while steadying a fresh cup of coffee with the other. Atop the packet of folders she'd perched a poppy seed muffin - his favorite.

As she neared, he rose, reaching across the desk and grasping the cup, regarding the muffin with a single raised brow.

Glinda lifted her nose, daring the man to quibble. "It's after one in the afternoon, General. You must be hungry."

"Not really."

"Eat it anyway." She laid the stack of papers on her side of the desk and unceremoniously plunked the pastry on his side with a little huff. Sensing his mood, she took a stab at levity. "That's an order."

He glared at it. "Since when do you give the orders?"

Pausing in the task of separating the documents into their separate piles, Glinda lifted her head to meet his eyes. "You need to eat, Sir."

As if in an attempt to assuage her, Jack pinched off a fingerful of muffin and popped it into his mouth. He chewed once, then swallowed, swigging down a quick mouthful of coffee before setting the cup aside. Shoving back in his chair, he rested his forearms on the rests. "Happy?"

Refusing to dignify that with a response, she hefted the first stack of documents and removed the top folder. "Here are the SGC personnel updates, Sir." She opened the file and pointed at the first tiny adhesive arrow. "I think that particular one has three lines on which to sign and two initial spaces."

Grabbing a pen from the desk next to him, the General clicked it open with his thumb and scribbled his name. It took another few seconds to find the rest of the stickers and make his mark alongside them. Finished, he closed the file and handed it back across the desk as Glinda handed him a new one.

Over the years, it had become a well-practiced dance. Open, Pass, Sign, Close. Open, Pass, Sign, Close. Glinda had come to enjoy the quiet, purposeful communication. For whatever reason, while O'Neill hated paperwork - seemingly on principle - he never complained about this particular chore. She'd pondered the possible reasons for that respite in his complaints, since similar tasks had been disregarded by the man as 'busy work' much to be eschewed. Perhaps it was that this wasn't decision-making, it was merely affirming decisions already made. It might be that he enjoyed the mindlessness of it, simply pressing pen to paper. He was a physical sort, and this was, for all intents and purposes, a physical activity. With a mental shrug, she handed the next set of papers across the desk, the cover of the folder flapping open. It didn't matter, as long as he did it without being churlish.

"These are requisitions for the Beta site. They're larger than normal since they've had to reposition twice in the past six months due to enemy activity. Also, note that Colonels Asher and Blakely are asking for a new naquadah generator. The current one, apparently, is spotty."

"Spotty?"

"Their word, not mine." Glinda reached out, tilting the document so that she could read the exact wording. "See? 'Spotty in its performance, needs a new actuator and is past due for complete overhaul'."

"So, they need a new one?"

"Apparently."

"Did I approve that?"

The irreverent curl on Glinda's forehead bobbled as she answered in the affirmative. "Yes. Although you grumbled about it."

"Why did I grumble?"

Hesitant, Glinda drew up short. Sinking back down into her chair, she peered at her boss, feeling not unlike a butterfly on happening upon an etymologist. When her voice finally made its way past the lump in her throat, it was thready. "Well, Sir. You mentioned that it could be fixed. That your wife could fix it."

His mouth formed a silent "Oh". Dropping his gaze to the file in front of him, he twiddled the pen in his hand before raising it to scratch at a point just above his eyebrow. "Yeah. She's usually able to figure her way around tech stuff."

"She could most likely fix just about anything."

The General's broad shoulders expanded as he drew in a purposeful breath. A thinking breath. Above the starched collar of his shirt, his jaw moved in a slow rhythm. He didn't look at his secretary. "Maybe."

"Sir?" What Glinda meant to ask, she wasn't certain of herself.

"She expects too much of herself." The pen seemed to have gained his full attention. "She demands too much. In the field, it's not too much of an issue. You want to go into battle with people who will get the job done, no matter what."

Watching him, Glinda was struck anew by the unknowable depths of the man across from her. The wealth of experience - and pain - he'd suffered in the service to his country. His world. As much as she respected him, she valued him, she could never truly know what he'd seen. What he'd done. How very much he'd lost.

"When she sets her sights on something, when she's determined - " His lips thinned. "There's nothing in the universe more amazing to watch."

There was a bareness to his expression, a yearning that Glinda had seen before, yet still couldn't begin to comprehend. She merely waited as he processed his way to his next thought. "We're just lucky she chose to join up."

Her curiosity couldn't be belayed. "If you don't mind me asking, Sir. Why did she choose the military when she could have done so many other things?"

Picking up his coffee, he leaned back in his chair. For Sam its more about family tradition and honor. He gestured with the cup at a photo on his wall. A distinctly younger O'Neill and Carter stood next to an older gentleman dressed as they were - in dress uniform. "Her dad was a high muckity-muck in the Air Force - a General. She wanted to follow in his footsteps."

"You didn't join for similar reasons?" Glinda was acutely aware that they were plowing new ground, here. Not once had she ever asked him why he'd enlisted.

There was a long pause as the General made an extensive study of the picture. Mouth tight, he tilted the cup in his hand to and fro - as if weighing responses in his head. Glinda watched as he worried at his answer. By now, she'd become accustomed to these moments of his, the time he needed to get to the point of certain matters. She still, however, couldn't decide if he needed time to mull over his responses, or to school the answers into something he'd sanitized.

"Being a kid was - " O'Neill paused, his glance at Glinda fleeting - almost wary. " It wasn't easy."

Neither had it been for Glinda. She could completely understand his hesitance to broach the subject. Some people seemed to thrive on the attention one received upon revealing a troubled youth. Others, like the General and herself, viewed a difficult childhood as something that was over and done with rather than something that needed to be dredged up at every opportunity and used as an excuse.

He shrugged. His brew sloshed a little over the side of the cup. "I graduated from high school. At least I managed to do that."

"You could have gone to college."

"I could have." He swiveled his chair and set the cup down carefully next to the file that still sat, open, on his blotter. "But no scholarship, no money. My father would have had to help."

She knew the rest. "And that wouldn't have happened."

"No." His eyes shadowed. "He wasn't - supportive."

"And your mother?"

A ghosted melange of emotion passed across his face. Pity. Disgust. Love - and something else. Despair. Abandonment.

He wouldn't answer, she knew that. But Glinda wouldn't have recognized all that if she hadn't felt it herself, once, watching her own parents simply give up without a fight. "So, the military wasn't necessarily a last resort for you."

"No." His dark gaze rose to meet her green one, then fell again to the file. Swiping his pen across the pages, he signed perfunctorily, quickly, before handing the pages back to his secretary.

She felt rather than heard his response. _It was an escape._

Glinda accepted the file, then handed him another one. "More personnel changes at Area 51."

Two more sets of paperwork crossed the desk before Glinda's curiosity got the better of her. "Sir?"

"Yeah, Pinky?"

"There's one thing I've never understood."

He scribbled out another signature, initialed twice, then handed her the sheaf of papers. "What's that?"

"You have two degrees." She accepted the papers, setting them on the pile of completed work on her left. "A bachelor's degree and a Master's degree."

Another folder landed in front of him, and he flipped to the sticker. "Guilty as charged."

"How? You were married, too. Being deployed on mission after mission. How did you find the time?"

Bending over the next spate of signatures, he paused, the tossed her a look from under his lowered brows. "Doing - what I did. I managed to get hit a few times. Break stuff. Get shot. Whatever."

"I know about your propensity for being injured, Sir."

He checked the last page for another sticker before closing the file and passing it her way. "I'd get laid up, taken off active duty during the recovery time. I got bored."

Glinda considered that. "So, you'd take classes while you were recovering from your injuries?"

"Did most of my undergrad classes on crutches. Couldn't do anything else during all those injuries, so I finished a bit early. Wrote my Master's thesis while I was in modified traction. Broken vertebrae, skull fracture."

Fully aware that her face was betraying her, she tried to hide her reaction to that information, but the General caught her before she could school her features into something less - reverent.

"What?"

"Sir. You are - " She looked down to see that she'd drawn the file folder in her hands towards her chest, clutching it to herself like a life preserver. "I'm sorry, but do you have any idea whatsoever how extraordinary you are?"

The tips of his ears pinked, and the skin at the corner of his eye twitched. "There are other things I've done that aren't nearly as impressive, Pinky."

"But - "

"Don't romanticize it." He reached out, palm up, his posture demanding the next packet. "Believe me. There's a whole mess of really bad, truly ugly crap that went along with it."

"Still, Sir - "

"I'm still an animal. Albeit an educated one."

"Sir." She handed him another folder, but didn't let go when he grasped it. "Don't do this."

With an exasperated sigh, he jerked the papers out of her fingers. "Listen, Pinky. I have a fairly specialized skill set. It's not one that most people would even like to boast about. It's dirty, and cruel, and base, and even as I did what I was ordered - what I chose to do - I hated being _able_ to do it. I did it for my country, and for my family, and for my planet. But killing people, being _good_ at killing people, isn't necessarily something I'm proud of."

She sat back in her chair, silent, watching as his strong hands moved the pen across the papers.

"And to be rewarded for it." He stalled, glancing over the top of his desk at Glinda. " To be honest, it kind of sucks."

"Please don't denigrate yourself." She handed him the last set of papers, rising as he dashed his name across the necessary lines.

He stood, shoving the chair back with a movement of his legs. Gently, he reached across the desk and gave her the documents. "It is what it is, Glinda. I am who I am. I've done what I've done."

Unspoken words crossed between them, and Glinda watched, her heart sinking, as his eyes dropped towards his desk, where a framed picture of Sam and a newly born Ben perched in its place of honor. He tightened, swallowed, hissing out a breath from between clenched teeth.

"She loves you, Sir."

"I know that, Pinky." He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. The silence stretched thick between them as he fought some inner demon. His eyes drifted closed as he continued. "But what if she can finally see through me?"

No response came to Glinda's mind, because there wasn't one to be made.

His voice was barely more than a whisper. Low, and quiet and uneven. "What if she finally understands me, now? And has figured out that she can't live with me. With my past? With who I am?"

Lost for words, Glinda could only stare at him, watching as his mind figured out possibilities. Implications.

"She's in a different mode now. A different life. Seeing different options." He drooped a bit. "Ultimately, you can't be with someone that you can't respect."

"Oh, Sir."

Bending, he picked up the pile of completed paperwork and handed it to her. She accepted it with both hands, gathering the pile against her body. Her fingers held on tightly - too much so. When she looked down at them, her knuckles were white.

"Just go on, Pinky. This is my problem. I'll figure it out." Finality. His posture was sending her away as much as were his words.

Acquiescing, Glinda turned towards the door, her low heels making the slightest little 'clicks' on the tile. Juggling her burden, she slid a hand around the doorknob, turning it before maneuvering her body back around to face her boss.

"General O'Neill."

He'd been in the process of sitting, but frowned and straightened up again. "Yes, Pinky?"

"On your bed, at home. There's a quilt."

His eyes narrowed. "There is."

"I happen to be well acquainted with it. It's a log cabin quilt, made with one and a half inch finished strips of various shades of greens arranged in a rows and furrows setting. There are, literally, thousands of pieces of fabric pieced together into that behemoth."

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Are you going to ask for it back if my wife kicks me to the curb?"

Stricken, Glinda shook her head. "Good Lord, no. Why would you say such a thing?"

"Then - what's your point, Glin?"

"The next time you look at it, really study it. Close up. Focus in on those little patches of fabric. You'll see all shades of green, from emerald green so dark that it's practically black to the lightest tones of mint, seafoam, and parsley. Some of the fabric pieces came from the quilt shop, from fat quarters or charm packs or halves that I bought specifically for the quilt. Others came from the bottom of my scrap bag. From bits I salvaged from other quilts, or even from orphan blocks I set aside, yet couldn't discard. Some of the fabric is beautiful. Some of the pieces only fair. Some of the bits and scraps in there are hideous."

His eyes flew wide. "Hideous?"

"Without question. I won two fat quarters at a guild meeting some years ago. One was covered with images of barrel cacti, and the other emulated what looked like watermelon rind. The prints were horrific, but the colors read well. If you look closely, you'll see more like that. Cartoony shamrocks, frogs, grass, and something with tractors, two different fabrics are in there that feature corn husks. There are even tiny inerlocking alien beings. I thought those were especially coy. A wise quilter can look beyond the odd, crazy prints to see the bigger picture. To see what those scraps could become."

Jack merely stood there, waiting, as she mused.

"And I looked at the conglomeration of colors and prints and wondered what on Earth I could make of them. So, I sorted the fabrics primarily by shade - lights on one side, darks on the other. I started cutting, and pinning and sewing. In order to make quilt patterns work, you have to have a good grasp of color theory. Any baboon can just sew fabrics together and call it a quilt. But in order to create art, you need to understand all shades and tones of the colors you're using. Deep, dark colors provide depth, while lighter ones give the quilt clarity and sparkle. All those differences create a finished piece that has action, and interest, and beauty."

One of the General's brows lifted ever-so-slightly.

"Kind of like people, don't you think?" Shifting the bundle in her hands, she peered at him from over the top of it. "If we were all made of one tone of only one color - of one single experience - think of how boring we'd be. Digging down into the scrap bag of life gives us more exciting options, though. Those dark parts of us are just as crucial to our souls as the bright, cheerful bits - they've taught us, shaped us, formed us. The lighter pieces give us joy, and respite from the dark - they salvage us, a little. All together, they give us movement, and vitality, and profundity. They give us character."

She slid her finger along the thick, creased edge of the file folder on top of her pile, her bright green eyes studying him. "They make us beautiful, Sir."

He wet his lips, squinting at her, his fingers steepled on the desk in front of him. "Beautiful."

"And here's the thing." Impassioned, she forged ahead. "When other people look at a quilt. They don't see the individual odd scraps and ugly patches. They see the whole design. The comfort, and usefulness of the piece, and the skill, effort, and love that went into making it."

"They do." Skepticism, with perhaps the tiniest hint of hope.

"Yes, Sir." She fumbled for the knob again, finding it and turning it. Pulling the door open just enough to fit through, she hazarded another glance in O'Neill's direction. "Just a thought, Sir."


	4. Impact

The Velocity of Strained Carrots

Impact

He'd slept in the office again.

Fresh off the elevator, Glinda couldn't help the groan that escaped her at the sight of her boss, dressed in plaid pajamas, making his way down the hallway towards their office. His still-wet hair dripped into the towel that was draped around his broad shoulders, and he was chewing on - Glinda had to blink to make sure she hadn't imagined it - a toothbrush.

She hot-stepped it to catch up to him. "Sir."

Slowing, O'Neill turned to look at her. "Miss Baldrich." He reached up and withdrew the toothbrush from between his teeth. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

"I thought I was going to work." She perused him, and his questionable state, before continuing. "Little did I know that I now appear to labor at a spa. Or a bathhouse."

"A spa?" The General used his toothbrush to point at her. "I'll have you know that I have never - not once - gone to a spa."

"A hotel, then."

He hissed a breath inwards between his teeth, shaking his head exactly once. "I'd think that any hotel worth its salt would have better facilities than those I just utilized."

Glinda repositioned the large bag on her forearm before casting a wry look out of the corner of her eye. "I suppose it would be too simple just to return home?"

His mouth turned down at that, his eyes going darker. She counted eighteen steps before he responded. "I called her, Pinky."

Glinda's bravado faltered for a moment. "And?"

He stopped short, in the middle of hallway, the orange light of a nearby 'Exit' sign reflected oddly on the sodden mess of his hair. "And she didn't answer."

"So?"

"She didn't answer." He strode off, more forcefully than he'd been walking before. "What am I supposed to do?"

Frowning, Glinda followed her boss the rest of the way down the hall to their door. Pausing alongside him, she watched as he reached into the breast pocket of his pajamas for the key. "You could have gone home."

The noise that came from between his lips resembled an altogether different disagreeable bodily noise. He turned the key in the lock and shoved the door open. Pausing on the threshold, he sighed, motioning her through the doorway with a tired, sad sort of flourish. "She's got quite the collection of weapons, Pinky."

Rebalancing her tote bag on her arm, Glinda shook her head, stepping into the darkened stillness of the common area. "Surely she wouldn't - "

"She's pissed, Glin." The General absently whacked the correct spot on the wall next to him, and the fluorescent lights sputtered slightly, then glowed to life. "And she's a better shot than I am."

Setting the large bag down at the side of her desk, the secretary concentrated on pulling her handbag out of the tote. "I think there's enough anger, hurt, and frustration to go around."

Behind her, his footsteps stilled, the soles of his rubber slippers making odd squishing noises on the tile. "Well, anyway, I called her."

Straightening, Glinda turned, then held out a neatly closed paper sack. "Here's your breakfast, Sir. "

The corner of his eyebrow edged upwards. "Another muffin?"

"A scone, actually. Raspberry." Glinda shrugged. "It wouldn't do to have you getting into a food rut. And besides, the fruit, such as it is, will do you good. If you wait a few minutes, I'll have your coffee ready. You can go get dressed in the meantime."

But the General just stood there, staring at the bag in his hand, his expression an inscrutable mask. At least his hair had stopped dripping. Unfortunately, there is where the small favors ended, as his current coiffure resembled that of what used to be known as a "Punk Rocker". Minus the rainbow colors, of course.

"Sir?" Glinda folded her hands before her, observing the subtle, nearly invisible, emotion play across his handsome face. Exhaustion - concern. He hadn't slept well. That was evident in not only the puffiness of his face, but also in the harrowed haunting of his eyes. Dropping her attention to his pajamas, she noticed the creases in the fronts of the legs, the awkward fit, the tag still attached to the sleeve of the top. He'd gone shopping, preparing to hole up in his office for a while. "Sir, might I mention that I've kept some things for you - from before the Colonel returned from the Hammond. They're in the large cupboard below the printer in my desk. Should you need them."

He nodded, his hands tightening on the folded top edge of the bag.

Drumming up some courage, she continued. "Although I sincerely hope that you do not."

His gaze jerked up to meet hers, and he raised the bakery sack in a quick, stilted salute. "Thanks, Pinky. I'll be in my office."

He was dressed and combed, his fingers flying over his keyboard, before the coffee was ready.

-OOOOOOO-

Glinda Baldrich had never been a fashion maven, although she did enjoy quality fabrics and exemplary construction. She'd gathered a closet full of wardrobe basics - slacks and neat skirts and business blouses, well-tailored jackets and silk shells. Still, a trip to the shops was more likely to result in a purchase of fabric or sewing notions than ready-made clothing. Her attitude towards the acquisition of new wearable items generally tended towards replacing older items when they were too worn or outdated, rather than buying new things for the fun of it.

She'd never been much for dresses. In her mind, a dress was simply not versatile enough a garment to be added to her wardrobe, because a dress was already decided on. It was casual or formal, Sunday-best or a beach cover-up. Jo Louise Turnbow had chided her on this opinion once, stating that many dresses could be 'jazzed' up with jewelry or scarves or 'toned down' with a business-like jacket and belt, depending on one's daily needs, but Glinda hadn't been convinced. A dress was a dress was a dress.

A shirtwaist, on the other hand. . .

She'd unpacked her handbag from the tote, and then emptied the items from the larger bag. A quick trip to the office supply shop earlier that morning had netted her some things they'd been in need of for a while. File folders, 'Sign here' stickers, disposable coffee cups with lids, sweetener packets of all kinds, a box full of those tiny creamer receptacles, two packages of AA batteries, the pens the General liked (in bulk), and various kinds of snacks. While she could have simply filled out a requisition form for the supplies, she had always enjoyed the tactile experience of pulling items from shelves rather than clicking buttons or checking boxes on a form. She'd spent several minutes restocking, reorganizing, and revamping before settling in at her desk and preparing for the day.

After the shopping, and following the conversation with the pajama-clad General, she was getting quite the late start. Hurriedly, she removed her cellular phone from its pocket on the side of her purse and then dropped the handbag itself into the drawer where she kept it during the day. Scooting closer to her desk, she reached out to drop the phone into its little tray, but hesitated. Without truly wanting to, she turned it to face her and then pressed the button on the front.

No message. He hadn't texted her.

She tried not to think anything about that, but felt foolish, all the same. Because another glance downward forced her to realize just how much she'd been thinking about today, and her date with him later on.

Last night, on her way to her Guild meeting with the Quilting Qats, she'd passed a sweet little boutique near the quilt shop. The Colonel had taken her there from time to time - in fact, Sam had purchased a stunning suit for Glinda as a gift from that particular clothier some months before. She'd made quite the impression wearing it on Easter morning during a meeting at the White House. Even the Secretary of Home World Security had mentioned how 'springy and fresh' she'd appeared.

So, even though she'd been running just the tiniest bit late, and even though she'd had no intention whatsoever to purchase anything other than the passport for that year's Quilt Shop Hop, she'd been utterly stopped in her tracks by the display in the boutique window.

The loveliest shirtwaist, a soft brushed cotton blend printed with multicolored leaves on a cream background. Tailored sleeves that fit just right, with a cunning, understated collar, and a belt that tied, rather than buckled. Inset pockets in the skirt, and a double line of pearlized buttons which marched from neck to hem. As she paid the wallet-wrenching sum for the garment, she'd justified her purchase by reminding herself that a shirtwaist was not, technically, a dress. It was practically a uniform. No different than the General's 'monkey suit'. Utility garb.

She'd barely been able to sit through the Guild meeting, fingering the braided handle of the clever shopping bag. The sales girl had wrapped the item in tissue before packaging it neatly in a box, assuring Glinda that the fabric wouldn't wrinkle. She'd even winked conspiratorially as she'd handed Glinda the receipt, giggling something about how the dress would make 'all the gentlemen take notice'.

As if that had even been a consideration. Lying in bed later, she'd rolled over to face her closet, where the shirtwaist had been eased onto a hanger and then allowed to grace the door rather than be wedged between the other - lesser - clothes. She'd felt as conflicted about the purchase as she did about speaking to William the next evening. But the idea of returning the garment had caused her quite the extraordinary pang. In her head, she'd seen him, seeing her wearing it, his familiar, dear smile lighting his face as effectively as overhead lighting reflected off his balding pate. And then she'd berated herself soundly and flipped over again, so she couldn't see it there, attached to the hook on her closet door, taunting her.

As she'd fallen asleep, she'd still been telling herself that she hadn't bought it for him.

In the morning, she lectured herself about wasteful spending and ridiculous fantasies, even as she slipped the lovely piece over her head and fastened the buttons up to a point just below her collar bones. And when she'd inspected herself in the mirror, she'd felt silly and childish and ridiculous.

And just the littlest bit pretty.

But he hadn't called. Or texted, or messaged. He probably hadn't remembered their appointment at all. And so, sitting in her well-worn office chair at her well-utilized desk, her hands smoothing the soft fabric on her lap, she felt like ten-times the fool.

The office door opened behind her, and the General appeared, shrugging his jacket over his shoulders. "Hey, Pinky."

Swiveling in her seat, she regarded him. "Yes, Sir?"

"I'm heading down to the Mezzanine. McElhaney wants to meet for a walk and talk."

"Sir?"

His brow rose. With meaning. "Without Marco. I might be a while."

Nodding, she filed that information away should it ever be pertinent. "Did you eat your scone?"

The dimple he denied he had made its perfect little divot in his cheek. "Yes, Mother. Thanks for that, by the way."

"You're welcome."

"Oh, and - Glin?" He paused, fixing her with a look.

"Yes, Sir?"

One hand rose to twiddle the air in front of him, motioning towards her, in a round-a-bout sort of way. "You look nice today. Very - pretty."

Pressing her lips tight against the smile that would embarrass them both, she nodded. "Thank you, Sir."

Sliding his hat under his arm, he looked her over again before heading across the office. At the door, he turned, halfway through, before peering at her again. "Seriously, Glinda. Really nice." And then, he was gone.

She made it through three sets of meeting transcriptions before checking her phone again, and then four more before lunchtime. She waited for the printer to strike off the last sets (in triplicate), then collated and stapled them, sticking them in file folders, and setting them aside to complete after she'd eaten. Feeling poorer after her extravagant expenditure the night before, she'd packed herself a small salad and a selection of nuts from home, which she withdrew from the minute refrigerator beneath her credenza and set on her desk.

It was quiet. Too much so. For the first time in months, she felt bereft of something - companionship, noise, purpose - as if being alone had become foreign to her. Musing on her own foibles, she opened the container that held her salad, then reached for the nifty little sealed container of dressing she'd prepared. Her stomach gave a little lurch, and she pulled her hand back, leaning away from her meal and slouching - just a bit - back into her chair.

Perhaps she would go out to eat, after all.

She cast the salad and the neat matching set of containers a glare before reaching for the insulated bag she'd used to transport them. With none of the care she'd taken to load them in the first place, she dumped the plastic boxes into the tote and pressed tightly at the hook-and-loop closure.

"Damn and blast." It had been her father's favorite curse, and Glinda dredged it up only in the most deserving of times. And this, with her favorite people still stubbornly refusing to see reason, and her own life edging towards an unknown precipice, wearing a ridiculous dress (call a spade a spade, Glinda!), and without any communication whatsoever from the one person she yearned to speak to, she considered _this_ moment highly appropriate for cursing.

"Damn and blast!" More loudly, now. Her voice echoed in the emptiness around her. Heaving a sigh, she leaned forward, resting her forehead in the nest of her folded arms. She'd stay in. She wasn't particularly hungry, anyway.

"Well, if that's not the saddest thing I've ever seen, I don't know what is." He'd entered more quietly than she'd believed possible, standing halfway through the doorway. "Hey, Glinda."

Sitting upright, Glinda laid her hands in her lap. "William."

With half a smile, he lifted his hand, which held a decent-sized bag. "I brought sustenance."

She tried to look disinterested, but ended up only feeling churlish. "I've just decided that I'm not hungry."

He rolled his eyes and made his way through the door, closing it behind him with his heel. "Well, that's not acceptable."

"Why should my hunger, or lack thereof, be of concern?"

Frowning, he neared her desk, settling the bag on the corner, near the box where she kept the mail. "What's up, Glinda?"

She looked down at her hands before sighing and raising her face to his again. "I believe that you and I should have a conversation."

His lip twitched. "Seriously? You're giving me the 'we've got to talk' speech?"

"Is there a speech? Is that an official sort of thing?" She peered up at him, honestly flummoxed. "I wasn't aware."

"No-it's just a cliche kind of thing." He rounded the edge of her desk and scooched some papers aside before perching his - er - rear, on the edge. "Now. Tell me what's concerning you."

Her decision had been made - hadn't it? But with him here, his kindly face radiating a care for her that she hadn't known from anyone other than the O'Neills in more years than she could remember, she felt a hitch in her heartbeat. In her resolve.

It would be right to let him go. To allow him - to urge him - to go forth in search of someone else who could fill his life with the same sort of light airiness with which he'd filled hers. She'd made that choice - to move on as she'd lived before that fateful day in a hospital elevator, well insulated within the walls of her constructed solitude. Her need to protect herself was greater than the experimental forays she'd made into this mad world of men, and dates, and text messages, wasn't it? She'd been feeling the vivid pain of her nearest loved ones lately as the General and Colonel had fought. That, more than anything else, had been the greatest factor in deciding that she wasn't right for the sort of relationship where that kind of hurt could even exist.

Hadn't she?

But those light blue-gray eyes. They did have a tendency to weaken one's knees.

Oh, heavens.

Distance, she needed distance. Rising suddenly, Glinda reached for a random pile of papers, shoving her way past Bean and his blasted charms before heading into the private office behind her. O'Neill never locked the door, so she pushed her way in without trouble. Rounding the desk, she laid the sheaf on the General's desk, then turned and ran directly, full body, into the reason she'd fled.

"Glinda." William caught her, steadied her, and then took half a step away from her. Somehow, he'd captured her hands, both of them in his own. "Talk to me, Glin."

Simple, easy. It would be so, so easy. Simple to succumb to this - to surrender to the easy way his hands warmed and soothed hers without doing anything at all. How he made her feel like _more_ than she actually was - without even disturbing her air. Flurries of doubt, of emotion-laced question raced through her mind, tumbling down into her heart.

She opened her mouth, inhaled in preparation to say the kind, concise, practical speech she'd practiced, met his eyes with purpose, and fought against her own body's urge to do something ridiculous. Like crawl into his arms.

"Glinda."

"I don't know how." She'd blurted the words more than actually spoken them.

"How to do what?"

"How to be - that kind of girl." Silly, to call herself a girl. Almost seventy years old and gray as foam. "I don't know how to be the kind of woman you're wanting."

His fingers tightened on hers. "And what kind of woman is that?"

"The kind who can do those things that you want to do."

"Like what, skydiving? Because I've always wanted to do that again."

She glared at him. "No. The kind that gets teased and texted and taken to restaurants where the menus are gibberish. The kind whose hand gets held and - " she faltered, trying to pull her hands from his. "And who gets - "

"And gets kissed?"

To that, she had no response available but a slow nod.

Bean grinned, one hand releasing hers to rise to her cheek, to trace the curve of her cheekbone with a fingertip, to continue his exploration upward, teasing at the curls at her temple, at the softness of her ear.

And she could do nothing but stand, and feel, and wonder. Wonder how those strong, capable hands could be so gentle - so fleeting - so sure. Marvel at how they could make her feel so worthwhile.

He'd moved closer, only a few inches away from her, and she was absolutely powerless to escape. Wasn't even sure whether she wanted to, anymore, what with William so - _there_.

"Yes. That." She shook her head. "Because I can't. I don't know how."

"Well, now. Let's see."

With a lazy sort of grin, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. Chaste, light, cool, nothing more than skin on skin. But then, his touch became more - _something_ \- and his fingers transferred from her hands to her waist, learning the feel of her body as his kiss became more sure.

Glinda's eyes drifted closed, and she concentrated on this singular sensation, the newness, the tingle of being connected in this way to another human being - another human being who _wanted_ to be this near to her. Needing air, she parted her lips and was surprised when he took advantage, deepening his attentions. She gasped in surprise, her hand sliding up his chest, teasing at the fabric of the ridiculous Hawaiian shirt he wore, then resting atop his shoulder. Her other hand curved around his rib cage, and she stepped closer. She felt his hands stall, and then flex at her hips, felt him groan, as he lifted his head and broke the kiss.

Oh, goodness. Oh, my. Glinda could merely stand there, overcome, as a sweetness that she'd never experienced before worked its way through her entire body. Slowly, she opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her with a bemused kind of grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling endearingly.

"Did you survive?"

She tried twice before the words came. "Apparently so."

"It's not that difficult, when you're practicing with the right person."

The extent of her vocabulary seemed to be a breathy sigh.

"Now, see?" Taking a step backward, he loosened his hold on her, bringing a hand up to tap coyly at her nose. "You've learned something today."

Glinda nodded, certain that her face had frozen with a look of complete fluff upon it.

"And like a wise woman once told me, 'The sharing of knowledge is its own reward'."

"Indeed it is."

From the front of the office came the unmistakable sound of the outer door opening. Footsteps fell heavily - something in the General's step connoted frustration.

Glinda threw a look at Bean, who merely grinned outright and waggled his eyebrows at her. "We're caught." He near-whispered. "Might as well face the music."

Feeling the sass, Glinda smiled back. "We'll probably get grounded." Grasping his hand - how had that become so normal a thing to do? - Glinda pulled him out from behind the General's desk, feeling not unlike a recalcitrant teenager.

What a remarkable thing that was.

They'd rounded the outer end of the desk, passing between it and the small conference table on the far end of the private office when a new sound - a familiar voice - made its way into the mix.

"Jack."

Stopping short, Glinda stared out into the outer office through the open door. The General had turned, and Glinda and Bean could clearly see the large form of O'Neill's back, and a small distance beyond, Sam, stopped directly in the center of the room. When William made a move towards the outer office, Glinda grabbed him and pulled him backwards and behind the table, into the dimmest reaches of the private area. The greater distance actually increased how much of the outer office they could see. Perspective, and all that.

Casting her a questioning look, Bean gestured out towards the main office area, but Glinda caught his hand and held him back, until he was as hidden as she. Turning towards him, she leaned into him and whispered, "Wait. We shouldn't interrupt."

"Sam." Flat. The General's voice was completely devoid of life.

She hesitated, then took a step forward, her skirt shushing a little in the quiet. "I've been worried about you."

"Oh?"

"I - uh - I thought something might have gone wrong."

O'Neill snorted. "I was under the impression that a great many things had gone wrong."

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

Glinda watched as Sam drew herself back a bit, smoothing down the thin summer sweater than she wore, buying time to formulate a response. "Jack, I'm sorry."

But still, the General simply stood there, completely still, his entire body taut.

"I waited for you to call me. I didn't want to call first - I thought I might bother you, or intrude or - " she trailed off, the toe of her ballet flat nudging at something on the tile. "Or something."

He didn't answer, but from her hiding spot, Glinda could see his hands clench into fists, and then, purposefully, relax.

"So, last night, I was pureeing vegetables in that damned blender thing and I looked over to see Ben crawling down the hall towards the stairs. I hadn't put the baby gate up, and so he started climbing the steps, and I put down the blender and ran to get him off the stairs before he fell, and the blender slid off the counter and smashed onto the floor. I quickly hooked up the gate, and put Ben back down with some toys and then went into the kitchen to pick up the stupid thing, and clean up the sweet potatoes, and by the time I got that mostly wiped up, he'd disappeared."

"As in - "

"As in - gone." Sam's hand made a frantic sort of flutter in mid air. "Gone. I looked in the bathroom, and in the kitchen, and under the dining room table, over by the piano, and behind that chair you like. He wasn't anywhere."

The General didn't move, didn't respond. He stood completely still, focused on his wife.

"And then my phone rang. So, I pulled it out of my pocket saw that it was you. And I was so relieved because I thought you were coming home and wanting to fix - things - and just as I was about to answer, I heard a huge crash in the front of the house, by the entry way. I ran in there, and there Ben was, playing with the plant next to the coat closet."

"The tree thing?"

"The ficus." She nodded, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead. "He'd pulled the entire thing over. He was standing over it like a conquerer, or Jaffa, or something, and he'd yanked out all that ridiculous mossy crap that I put in there to hide the potting soil, and had dug everything out of the pot and was playing in the dirt. Only I'd just watered it, so it was more like mud, and there were pebbles to aid in aeration of the soil and he was eating them. Sucking on them as if they were candy. He had to have had four or five in there. He was covered in mud and leaves and little bits of moss were just clinging everywhere to him. And there he stood - disgusting - his cheeks full of rocks like some sort of deranged squirrel."

Jack's shoulders moved - just the tiniest bit. From behind, Glinda couldn't tell if he'd steeled himself against a laugh, or had just shifted.

"So I set the phone down and dug the rocks out of his mouth, then, naturally, the phone rang again, but my hands were grossed out with spit and mud and leaves and mossy crap, and I had this gigantor mess in the entry way, so I hurried to the laundry room to get the broom and dustpan and some towels, and when I got back, the little twit was gone again."

"Where - "

"I heard the flush. Did you know he knew how to flush the toilet? Because he does." Her hands fell, limp, to her sides. "Do you want to know what he flushed?"

"Hm?"

From her view point, Glinda couldn't tell whether O'Neill was engaged in the narrative or merely stuck in the situation. His head tilted to one side, and he pushed back his coat to stick his hand into the pocket of his trousers.

"My phone."

Sam crossed her arms across her midsection, as if in an attempt to hold herself together.

Glinda readjusted her hand in Bean's, holding it tighter, closer, drawing comfort from the contact that she wished desperately that she could transmit to her friend.

"And I wanted you there so much. Because you would have been having a ball. Hell, you would have been down on the floor with him, making mud angels or something, and he would have been rolling in it right along with you- just having the best time. You would have been laughing yourselves silly. All I could think about was how much you would have loved it. So, I fished the phone out of the toilet - it's totally destroyed, by the way - and we both crawled down the hallway and played around for a while in the mud until he crawled into my lap and started sucking his thumb."

"But - what about the bad teeth thing?"

"It didn't matter. I let him. And I just held him and we sang a stupid song that we made up about the stupid ficus, and we made a memory." She faltered, her voice barely audible, her lovely face a perfect mix of the poignant and the heartbreaking.

The General looked down, sideways, at Glinda's desk, using his free hand to fiddle with her stapler.

"Except that you're not in it." She took a step closer to him, slow, unsure. "And you should have been."

O'Neill's hand stalled, but he raised his eyes to focus on his wife. "Oh?"

"You ground me, Jack. You force me to see the truth. I have this freaky brain that manages to screw up everything that's normal. I can jury-rig sarcophagi, or integrate Asgard crystals into our own power cores, or create a feedback loop to make a bomb out of a harmless naquadah generator. I can backwards engineer Ancient cloning technology, but I can't seem to keep myself from trying to control every aspect of the life of one small boy. And even worse, I couldn't figure out why."

"Mmm." A response that meant nothing in particular. Or everything.

Tucking her chin, she pushed a wayward strand of gold back behind her ear. "Do you remember P3W-451?"

His nod was brief, exacting. "Henry Boyd. Black hole."

"We were standing in the Control Room of the SGC, and we'd managed to speed up the MALP's video in order to compensate for the time dilation. I asked that we keep the MALP's cameras rolling so that we could study the black hole and its effects. It was an amazing opportunity to witness that event."

"I remember."

"And you said no. You reminded me - none too gently - that we weren't really seeing the spectacle of a newly-forming black hole." She swiped at her cheek - wiping away a tear? She was too far for Glinda to see clearly. "You reminded me that what we were seeing was good men dying. Slowly."

The General raised his chin. "Yes. We were."

"I need you to remind me of that. I need you to remind me that I'm raising a baby, and not a science project. I need - "

"I've tried, Sam." His interruption lay cold in the pallid air of the office. "I've tried. You've ignored me. Shut me out."

"See? That's my conundrum. I need you, but I'm also trying not to make demands. I was trying to make it easier on you."

"How? By making me superfluous? Unnecessary?"

"Of course not - " Her husband's expression must have radiated something stronger than his body language, because she stopped herself, turning slightly, stepping backwards. "I knew that you didn't want him in the first place. Didn't want to start it all over again - the kid thing. You didn't - "

"Ah. So you were trying to save me." He raised his arms upwards in the universal 'oh well' gesture. "You were trying to protect me because of my advanced age and infirmity?"

"Jack, no - "

"Or maybe I'm so stupid that I can't possibly remember what to do with a child. So far gone that I can't make intelligent decisions." He pointed at her. "After all, you're the smart one. You've done all the research, haven't you?"

"That's not it." Stronger, now, Sam met his gaze with a touch of the warrior Glinda knew she was. "I couldn't have - wouldn't have followed you, served with you for all these years if I didn't trust you. If I didn't respect the hell out of you."

He made a noise in the back of his throat, derisive, dismissive.

"Jack - don't, please. You know I don't feel that way."

"Then what? What is it?" Both hands, now, held out, palms up, his motions sharp, and harsh. "What the hell is it? You push, and prod, and decide what the best way is, and then when I do anything, it's wrong. So, rather than let me take part in raising our son, you take over and send me on my geriatric way. Why?"

"Because I don't want you to resent me!" Sam choked out a sob, turning away from Jack, one hand raised to press at her forehead. "And I don't want you to resent Ben. Because when I found out that I was pregnant, I was terrified that you would decide that it was just too much bother. And you know what? You kind of freaked out there, for a while. You did. And I felt that having this - _making_ this - family of ours was something that you'd do, only because the deed was already done, so you'd deal with it, and him, and us. But that you didn't actually ever _want_ it. And so, I'm doing all this ridiculous crap to show you that I can do it - that I can measure up to how perfect it was for you before - because I know that it was fantastic with Sara. To show that I can be the kind of mom that a child needs to grow up in the world that we know. Because you're so damned natural at it all, and you have practice and skills, and he likes you better, even though you didn't want him. I'm trying to do this perfectly so that you don't regret marrying me."

She laughed - ridiculously. "And I've long since stopped making any kind of sense."

O'Neill had shoved both hands deeply into his pockets, his feet planted squarely on the tile. He was listening intently. Wary, but attentive.

Sam turned again, dropping her arms to her sides, her entire being exhibiting something like defeat. When she spoke again, her tone was softer. Humble. "And because somehow, that little guy has filled something in me that's been empty for a really, really long time, something that I never dreamed I even wanted. You have given me this gift, this joy that I never thought I'd have. And I'm afraid that I'm screwing him up."

"You're not-"

"And then you laugh at me. And think that what I'm doing is ridiculous. I'm losing you. Losing you when you're the one person in the entire universe that makes me whole, who understands me, who can see past the damage, and the darkness that's in there, and the nightmares, and - Damn it. You're my _everything_ , Jack. You and Ben."

The General exhaled heavily. He ran a hand through his hair, rolled a shoulder, shifted his balance. "Sam, this isn't rocket science. He's a little kid. He wants to chew on rocks, and to be fed, and to have clean pants every once in a while. He wants to be played with, and to have his mom tickle him from time to time so that he can pull her hair and stick his fingers up her nose. You're making this out to be so much more complex than it has to be."

"Only because I'm trying to - "

"To do what - prove you're better at it than everyone else?" His voice had gentled, but his words still carried a bite. "Prove that you can do it alone?"

"Geez - no. I don't want to do it alone."

"That's what it seems like. It feels like."

"I don't want to do this alone, Jack." Stronger, now. She looked directly at her husband.

"Then what, Sam?"

"I want to do it _again_."

Jack stiffened again, his body at attention again. "What?"

Sam took another step towards him, and Glinda could see her hands clearly, how they were folded together, almost as if in prayer.

"I want to do it again. And I know that you don't want to. I know that you didn't even want Ben. And I guess I thought that if I could prove that he wouldn't be any trouble - that I could take care of everything, then maybe you'd - "

It took three strides for him to get close enough to touch her, and only a moment for him to pull her to him. From her vantage point, Glinda could see the General gather his wife up against him, one large hand tangling itself in the fine knit of her sweater, the other lifting to frame the worried line of her jaw. Lowering his forehead until it met hers, he spoke, words too soft for anyone but Sam to hear. But Glinda could see a glistening in her eye, a bright trail down her cheek where a tear made its way towards her chin. And then she couldn't see anything else as O'Neill tilted his wife's face upwards and captured her mouth with his own.

Glinda glanced down at where her hand still tangled with Bean's. Warm, tight, pleasant. There was a little flutter in her gut that had nothing to do with wanting the food that sat - still uneaten - on her desk. The activities occurring so close to that food seemed to be what caused her to wobble a little inside.

Because now, she knew.

Cheeks pinkening, she looked up at William, at how his expression had softened, how he was watching her as intently as she'd been focused on her friends in the front office, and how his normally kindly regard for her had become so much _more_. He lifted their joined hands, pressing a kiss on her knuckles, then pulling her over to plant another one on her mouth.

And that's how Glinda Baldrich discovered that it was possible to smile while being kissed. And how easy it was to lose track of time.

Footsteps sounded in the doorway, and then a surprised, "What the - "

Lights flared, and the spell was broken as suddenly as it had been cast. Chagrined, Glinda looked towards the doorway to see the General standing in it, Sam just behind him. William, naturally, broke out into a grin the size of the Grand Canyon, but Glinda could only stand there, oddly comfortable, feeling pretty in her lovely dress, and cherished in the warm embrace of this wonderful man,

"Pinky?" He made a circular motion with one hand, his left eye narrowing. "What's going on here?"

"Well, Sir." There were times for courage, and times for humility. _This_ was a time for gumption. It was practically Biblical. Raising an eyebrow, and squaring her chin, she squeezed Bean's large hand in her own. "Since you were making out in my office, I judged it fitting that I should make out in yours."

-OOOOOOOO-

"So, anyway, Jack made me sign a whole slew of papers. Non-disclosure stuff." William swiped at the countertop with the washrag, his other hand gesturing with the bottle of cleanser. "Even though I didn't understand a word of it."

Having placed the jug of milk in its place, Glinda closed the refrigerator door and turned to face him. "I think you'll find that some things you see in the news from time to time might make a little more sense."

Tossing the rag into the sink, Bean plunked the bottle down on the little tiled ledge above the faucet. "Maybe. It's still kind of tacky that my girl has the coolest job in the world, and I can't tell anyone about it."

"You poor dear." With a foot, she scooted the high chair back into its position next to the garbage can. "That must be a terrible trial for you."

They stood alone in the clean kitchen, the O'Neill's house quiet around them, and Ben slumbering upstairs in his crib. Earlier, the General and the Colonel had been ordered in to an emergency meeting with Secretary McElhaney at the Pentagon - something about the Polaris project, and Sam's new position of leadership over it. Glinda had been called to babysit, and since she'd just been ready to step out on a date with Bean when her phone had rung, he'd tagged along.

"I'll try to be a brave little toaster."

Would she ever get used to his teasing? Glinda sort of hoped not. Becoming accustomed to something took the thrill away, and Glinda wasn't done being thrilled, quite yet. "Yes, I'm sure you will."

Angling a look at her, William held out his hand. "Come here, will you?"

Her response was immediate. At her age, she had no time to waste. She walked right into his embrace.

For once, the man wasn't being jovial. His friendly face had taken on a serious tone. "So, we haven't really talked about where we're going from here."

"Are we going anywhere?" She frowned. "It might be quite late by the time the O'Neills return from the Pentagon."

"No, Glin." He shook his head. "You and me. Us. This." He pulled her a little closer.

"Oh." She didn't know what else to say.

"My wife passed eight years ago. I've missed her. Missed being married. I've filled up my time with volunteering, or helping out with the grandkids. I've managed."

Encircled by his arms, Glinda couldn't do anything other than nod.

"She'd been sick for years before, too. ALS is a cruel thing. Truly, I lost her long before she died. Even with the kids around, I was still - alone."

"I know that feeling well."

"You do." His smile was sweetly sad. "So, I get into this elevator one day, and there's this girl in there who could not possibly be more different than Viv. But I'm looking at this girl, and she's pretty and a little uptight, and super smart, and doesn't have a clue how funny she is, and I thought I might take a shot at being happy again. And maybe not be alone anymore."

Dropping her gaze to the top button of Bean's shirt, Glinda pressed back a grin.

"And there's something special between us." He dipped his chin to catch her eyes. "Right?"

"Yes." Nodding, she lifted a hand to touch his face, realizing how intimate it was to feel the stubble of his beard on her palm.

"So, I'm just letting you know. I am totally smitten with you. Twitterpated. Infatuated. In love. But I'm an old-fashioned sort of guy. And I'm a chaplain through and through. So, there'll be some limits to the - " he faltered when he realized that Glinda had focused her complete attention on his mouth. " - to the physical side of things."

"Agreed." Glinda rose up slightly on her toes and stopped his words with a kiss, melting against him until he'd kissed her back in a manner she'd found both sufficient and thorough.

"Anyway, I just thought I'd let you know that." Bean said, once he'd come up for air. "There'll be no hanky panky. No bedroom stuff."

Glinda sighed, enjoying the singular sensation of sighing into the man, of learning how his chest hair tickled her nose until she pressed her cheek there, instead. Of how his hands, making steady circles on her back, could be so much nicer than she'd ever imagined. "That sounds as if it's an amenable plan."

"Then it's settled." He nodded. "No bedroom stuff."

"Mmm."

"At least," William pulled her even more closely, pressing his cheek to the curls on top of her head. "No bedroom stuff until we're married."

The End

(At least, until the Honeymoon.)


End file.
